The Stranger I Married

Chapter 20: Welcome Home

By afternoon, the countryside had disappeared behind them. Westbridge rose ahead, immense and busy, its familiar skyline a sharp contrast to the open fields they'd left behind.

Eve watched the city through the window. She had spent time here before—business meetings, social events, family obligations. But returning beside Alex made it feel different. Like she was seeing it for the first time.

"Which way?" she asked.

He glanced at her. "Beaumont Manor."

"Your house?"

"Our house." He reached across and took her hand. "And when you're ready, we'll arrange for your things to be moved over. Whatever you want to bring—furniture, books, anything that matters to you. It's your home now too."

She felt something warm move through her chest. "You've thought about this."

"I've thought about a lot of things." He squeezed her hand. "I want you to feel like this is yours. Not just a place you're staying."

She was quiet for a moment, letting the words settle.

"Thank you," she said softly.

He smiled. "You don't have to thank me for wanting you to feel at home."

He turned onto a quieter road, and a set of large iron gates appeared ahead. Alex drove through, and Eve stared through the windshield.

The manor stood beyond the long drive.

She had known Alex was successful. She had seen his car. She knew about his company. But she had not expected this.

The old manor rose among mature trees and expansive gardens, its stone façade softened by years of history. It wasn't new. It wasn't modern. It was old, and beautiful, and full of character.

Alex parked near the entrance. Eve remained in the car for a moment, taking it in.

Then she looked at him. "This is your house?"

Alex smiled. "My grandfather gave it to me. But it belonged to my grandmother Arabella first. Her family built it."

Eve looked at him, curious. "Her family?"

"The Beaumonts." He gestured toward the house. "Arabella's great-grandfather built this place. He was the first Beaumont to move to the city—made his fortune in cattle ranching and business. The ranch my grandfather stays on now was also part of the Beaumont estate. Arabella's great-grandfather was a successful cattle rancher and a clever businessman."

Eve looked at the house with new eyes, imagining the man who had built it generations ago.

"It was neglected for a while," Alex continued. "Sat empty for more than a decade before my grandfather decided to do something with it. My grandmother loved this place, but when she got sick, she wanted to stay on the ranch. She was happiest there." His voice softened. "The last year before she passed, Grandpa moved her to the Estate at East Cliffe to be near the hospital for her treatment. She never came back here."

Eve felt something shift in her chest—a quiet ache for the woman who had loved this house but chose to spend her final days elsewhere.

"You've been working on it for two years, you said."

"Something like that." He gestured toward the house. "The kitchen needed completely modernizing. Some of the bathrooms were outdated. I renovated several of the main rooms but kept the original character wherever I could."

Eve smiled. "Good. I like to cook."

He raised an eyebrow. "You do?"

"Sometimes. When I want time for myself." She shrugged. "I don't always want to use staff. It relaxes me."

He looked at her with new appreciation. "I like to cook too. When I can. But with my schedule, I usually end up relying on staff."

"Then we'll have to make time." She tilted her head, a teasing glint in her eyes. "I'll teach you a few things."

"You'll teach me?" He laughed. "I've been cooking for years."

"Then you won't mind a refresher course."

He shook his head, still smiling. "I think I'm going to enjoy this."

"So do I."

Alex was quiet for a moment. Then: "Victoria didn't like it."

Eve looked at him. "She didn't?"

"She said the atmosphere was too old." He paused. "The style was outdated. She didn't like old things. She thought the manor was creepy. Spooky."

Eve looked toward the house again. "I disagree."

"I know."

He smiled, but there was something underneath it—a flicker of the old wound, carefully hidden. "I was actually planning to buy her a new house after the wedding."

She turned toward him. "You were going to move her out?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"She didn't want to live here." He shrugged, but the gesture was too casual, too practiced. "I thought it might make her happier."

Eve studied him. "And you? Where would you have lived?"

He was quiet for a moment. "With her. In the new house." He glanced toward the manor, and his voice softened. "But I would have kept this place. Used it for the company, maybe. Or just... held onto it."

She watched his face as he looked at the house—the way his expression shifted, the quiet pride mixed with something sadder.

"I wasn't going to let it go," he said softly.

Eve felt something shift in her chest—a quiet ache for the man who had loved this house enough to restore it, who had been willing to compromise so completely, who had kept a piece of himself even when he was trying to give someone else everything.

She reached for his hand. Alex looked down at their joined fingers.

"You really do love it," she said.

"I do."

She smiled. "I love it too."

He squeezed her hand. "I'm glad you think so."

They walked toward the entrance together, and Alex unlocked the heavy oak door, pushing it open.

Eve stepped inside.

The entrance hall opened before her like a breath held too long. High ceilings soared above, their plasterwork catching the afternoon light that slanted through tall windows. Polished wooden floors stretched across the space, their warm glow a testament to the care Alex had poured into restoring them. A sweeping staircase curved upward, its dark wooden banister gleaming with fresh polish.

Eve turned slowly, taking it all in. The quiet grandeur of it. The way the light moved across the walls. The sense of history that seemed to settle around her like something familiar—not old and worn, but loved and brought back to life.

"Alex, this is—" She shook her head, searching for words that wouldn't come. "This is incredible."

He stood in the doorway, watching her. His hands were in his pockets, his posture relaxed, but there was something in his eyes—a quiet hope, a careful watching.

"You really think so?"

"I really think so." She looked at the staircase, the windows, the banister gleaming with its new finish. "It's like stepping back in time. But in the best way."

Something shifted in his expression. The careful watching disappeared, replaced by something brighter, warmer—a joy that seemed to rise up from somewhere deep.

He crossed to her in two quick strides. Before she could say anything, his arms were around her, pulling her close. He hugged her—tight and fierce, like she was something he'd been waiting to hold.

Then he kissed her.

Not the slow, careful kisses of before. This one was different—laughing, joyful, full of a lightness she hadn't seen in him. He pulled back just long enough to meet her eyes, and then he was laughing, picking her up off her feet, spinning her in the middle of the entrance hall.

Eve laughed too, her hands gripping his shoulders, her head tipping back. The world spun around her—the high ceiling, the polished floors, the man who was holding her like she was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

He set her down gently, his hands still on her waist, his forehead resting against hers.

"Wait until you see the kitchen," he said, his voice full of warmth.

He led her through the house, and Eve felt herself falling into the rhythm of it—the way he opened each door with a quiet pride, the way he watched her face as she took in each room.

The sitting room was warm, intimate—bookshelves lining one wall, a fireplace at the centre, comfortable chairs arranged like they were waiting for conversation. The dining room was grander, with a long table that could seat twelve and windows that looked out over the front gardens.

Then he opened the door to the study, and Eve stopped.

The room was smaller than the others, more private. Tall windows overlooked the back gardens, and the light fell across the wooden floor in long golden rectangles. Bookshelves lined two walls, and a desk sat beneath the window.

"This is where I work," Alex said. "When I'm here."

Eve imagined him in this room—bent over papers, staring out the window, thinking. She felt like she was seeing a part of him he didn't show everyone.

"Can I see the kitchen now?" she asked, smiling.

He laughed. "Follow me."

The kitchen made her breath catch.

It was the perfect balance—modern appliances hidden behind cabinetry that matched the house's original character. The warm wood of the cabinets complemented the stone floor. A large island dominated the centre, its surface worn and beautiful. The windows looked out over the back garden, where the afternoon light was beginning to soften.

Eve walked slowly around the island, her fingers brushing the countertop.

"You did this?" she asked.

"I designed it. A friend helped with the installation."

She turned to him. "It's perfect."

He smiled—a different smile than before. Softer, more private. "I'm glad you think so."

Then he led her upstairs. The master bedroom was at the end of the hall—large, light-filled, with windows that looked out over the gardens. French doors opened onto a small balcony that overlooked the city in the distance. The bed was simple but elegant, the linens white and soft. A fireplace faced the bed, and an armchair sat in the corner by the window.

Eve stood in the doorway, not quite crossing the threshold.

"This is our room," she said.

He came up behind her, his arms circling her waist. "Yes."

She leaned back against him, feeling the warmth of his chest against her back, the steady beat of his heart.

"Here," she said softly. "This is where we're going to live. Together."

She felt his arms tighten around her. "Is that okay?"

She turned in his arms, looking up at him. His face was close—close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the slight shadow of stubble on his jaw.

"It's more than okay."

He kissed her then—slow and warm, full of promise. His hand came up to cup her cheek, and she felt the calluses on his palm from the wood chopping, from the work he'd done on this house. The man who had built this home with his hands was holding her like she was part of it.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.

"Welcome home, Eve."

She felt the words land somewhere deep in her chest.

She looked up at him, her eyes shining. "I like the sound of that."

"Good." He pressed another kiss to her forehead. "Because you're going to hear it a lot."

They unpacked together.

It didn't take long—neither of them had brought much. Eve hung her dresses in the closet beside his shirts, and the sight of them there—her soft colours next to his dark fabrics—made her chest feel full. She stood there for a moment, just looking.

"Everything okay?" Alex asked from behind her.

She turned, smiling. "Yes. Just... getting used to the sight of it."

He crossed to her, sliding his arms around her waist. "I know what you mean."

"There's something else I want to show you," Alex said.

He led her down the hall to a smaller room at the end of the corridor. Bookshelves lined two of the walls, their shelves empty and waiting. A desk sat beneath a window that faced the back garden, and the light that fell through it was soft and golden.

"This is your study," he said.

Eve blinked. "My study?"

"You need somewhere to work." He smiled. "And I want you to have a space that's yours. Where you can think, plan, make decisions. Where you can be Eve Harrington, COO."

She stepped into the room, turning slowly. The bookshelves were empty, waiting to be filled with her books, her files, her things. The desk was clean, waiting for her work. The room felt like a promise.

"This is—" She shook her head. "Alex, you didn't have to do this."

"I know." He came to stand beside her. "I wanted to. This is your house too now. You should have a space that feels like yours."

She looked at him—at the man who had given her a study in a house he'd been restoring for years. The man who had married her without knowing her name. The man who had bought her a bowl for their house and a carved bird for his mother.

"I don't know what to say," she said quietly.

"Say you like it."

She laughed—a soft, surprised sound. "I love it."

He smiled. "Good." He paused, then added, "And if you want to change anything—the color, the furniture, the way the light falls—you can speak to the interior decorator and the contractor. Whatever you want. It's your space."

She looked at him, something warm moving through her chest. "You'd let me change things?"

"Of course." He shrugged, like it was obvious. "You're the one who's going to be working in here. It should feel like yours."